Lost in the Shadows
by Wildcat Wells
Summary: [Flatliners][Laura] Nelson is committed to a mental institution and meets a misdiagnosed schizophrenic, Maggie, who sees things no one else can. After a time of seeing her condition worsen, he takes it upon himself to treat her illness.
1. Nelson: In the Looney Bin

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

Rating: Just barely makes it in at PG-13, in my opinion. I'm keeping it as clean as I can, Mrs. Wells, but the whole darn premise is pretty dark. But hey, _28 Days_ is rated PG-13.

A/N: This picks up at the ending of Flatliners and continues onward. If you haven't seen Flatliners, I highly recommend it. Good movie, though earns its R rating.

This is from Nelson's (Kiefer Sutherland) point of view, at least most of the time.

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When I came back that last time, they were so happy. I heard a lot of prayers, and laughter, and crying. Me, I just was glad I didn't choose that day to die. Not a good day...not a good day to die. They stood me up, and checked all the vital signs. I felt happy, I felt exhausted. Then I saw Rachel pick up the phone and dial a number. Before I could tell her to put down the goddamn phone, the police were there, the ambulances were there, and I was being hauled off on a stretcher by some kiddie amateur EMTs. Hell, I probably knew more about emergency first aid than them. I know I knew more about how to handle a person come back to life than them. I chuckled at the thought, and they started hooking me up to all these drugs and I felt my brain start to loosen up. I know I told them everything. About the flatlining, the crossing over, the visions. They looked at me like I was crazy. But I'm not crazy! I've been there, I've died, I've seen the other side! I've been stalked by the kid I killed when I was nine! I didn't hit myself and get these cuts! Someone hit me! That little bastard hit me with a screwdriver, a pipe and his bare fists. I tried to tell them, but they put me on more drugs.

--- --- ---

I woke up in a white room. Everything was perfectly white. The bunk bed was painted white, the sheets were white, the walls were white and the little plastic chair was white. There was a little (white) plastic table of drawers next to the bed where I was laying. I was in a mental institution for lunatics. I jerked up in horror and held my hands to my throbbing head. They'd bandaged up all my scratches, I felt that. I looked down at myself. I was wearing some sort of thin white T-shirt and baggy white pants. Catching sight of the dark bruise on the inside of my elbow, I felt the world sway around me like I was seasick. They'd left me my glasses, but they'd altered something about the frames. They couldn't pop out, I could see that easily. I tapped my fingernail against the lens and heard the sharp sound of plastic. I chuckled again. So they didn't even trust me with my glasses. That was great. Jesus Christ, I'm not suicidal, I'm just curious. Nothing's wrong with curiosity, right? It killed the cat, it killed me, but I'm not a cat and I didn't stay dead. There's no scars on these wrists, buddy. They're all baby soft. I don't want to die, I want to come back.

Thinking about this for so long made me lose track of the time, and before I knew it someone was knocking on the door. I jumped sharply, and before I could realize what I was saying, I answered like I would at home.

"Come in, nothing to steal," I snapped irritably. Then I smacked my forehead as I realized how psycho and paranoid I must have sounded. The door clicked open and a pink-clad orderly stepped in. She had long pretty blond hair tied back in a ponytail and looked like she thought I was going to eat her. She did look like cotton candy.

At that thought I started laughing quietly, and finally gave in to the hysterical laughter I'd been holding in so long. I fell back on the thin mattress with my arms wrapped around my middle, laughing like I was some freak pot-head instead of a medical student with the keys to light. Suddenly as I was laughing I felt a lurch in my stomach. Someone was laughing with me. That little voice of the boy I killed. I knew it wasn't really him. In my heart I knew he wasn't there. But I knew I would probably dream about the little snot for the rest of my eternally damned life. Something leaped into my throat and I pitched off the bed, seeing as I fell the terrified face of the little orderly. I smacked into the linoleum like a ton of bricks and split open my lip again. Before I could even curse at that little thing, I threw up. With barely any warning, all past lunches were sitting on the floor in front of me and I felt like I was about to cry. The orderly – I didn't even know her name – let out this strangled cry and leaped backwards. I scooted back away from the pool of vomit until I couldn't accidentally brush into it, and as she called for someone to help her, I laid my cheek on the cold floor and started to cry. As I closed my eyes I heard a loud scream echoing down the corridor.

I never actually passed out. I just wish I had. They picked me up, cleaned me off. I have now decided that one of the most embarrassing things in the world is a sponge bath. Then they took me to the psych office. This had color. The walls were actually beige. I never thought I'd be so happy to see the color beige. The man sitting across from me was old, wrinkly and had droopy eyebrows. He reminded me of those old Sad Sam stuffed dogs I had when I was a kid.

"Nelson Wright," he said slowly, deliberately, and knitted his fingers together. "You were brought here for...hallucinations, attempted suicide, drug use and self-injurous behavior."

"Oh, come on!" I snapped, losing my patience. "That's just a load of bullshit. I just tried to step over into someone else's territory. I got punished. You people just can't comprehend what I was doing! I was crossing the bridge! There is another side!"

I started to stand up, but a stern look from the good shrink stopped me and made me sit back down. Yeah, yeah. I learned my lesson. No more God-playing for old Nelson. But come on! It was an amazing discovery!

I'm ashamed to say that I was so busy reassuring myself that I had, in fact, done something amazing and not something simply stupid, that I missed the next few things the old guy said to me. What I did hear, however, made me extremely pissed off, to say the least.

"...checked in by a Rachel Mannus and a David Labraccio."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I said in shock. "Mannus and Labraccio?" I ran my hands through my blond hair in shock, and winced when my fingers came in contact with a patented Billy-bruise. "You must have that wrong. Those are my friends. They wouldn't send me off to the looney bin."

"This is not a 'looney bin,' Mr. Wright. This is an institution for the mentally unstable. And that, I'm afraid, perfectly describes you at this present moment in time."

I groaned and sat back in my chair, mentally preparing the names I would call them when I was back in the privacy of my own little cotton ball. I shut my eyes and then opened them again. I knew I looked like hell. I could feel the little gauze squares on my face and I remembered from that last night that there was a dark circle around my eye. It didn't look particularly attractive when placed against the whites of my eyes. In fact, Rachel had plain out told me I looked deranged. This was, or course, before she found out about my "withholding of information which is the same as lying." I sighed wearily. "Can I have a smoke?" I asked raggedly, feeling like everything would feel better if I was exhaling smoke through my nose like a cartoon bull. The good shrink raised his eyebrows at me.

"There will be no addictive drugs used at this facility, Mr. Wright." He paused. "You're very young, Mr. Wright. Please try to detach yourself from such addictions. You are only twenty-five. It is far too young for you to be so attached to a habit like that."

I shot him a glare. What crap. Anyway, I knew what I was. I was a smoker. I was a shit. I played with my friend's lives. I made fun of people. I was a smartass. I'm psychotic. I'm the mad doctor with too much of a taste for death and curiosity. I'm ruthless. I creep people out. I killed an eight year-old boy when I was nine. But I'm not a crackpot. I'm not insane.

After about five more minutes of stupid questions, in which I'm sure I convinced them I was completely insane, they let me out into the hall, and down towards my room. As they ushered me down the white tunnel of doom, I saw a barred door open and an orderly started to back out, rear first. Ah, maximum security. As we drew nearer, the orderly (This one in a nice mint green. They seemed to like pastels here. Must be some calming thing to make us all think about candy and Easter. Ah, resurrection.) turned and dragged someone out with her. This person, this girl she dragged out, was possibly the most screwed-up looking person I had ever seen. And yes, I had looked in a mirror recently. Still, she was one screwed up little puppy. She seemed thin, almost to the point of anorexia, and her eyes were too big for her face. They were bloodshot. I suppose if she had eaten something in the last year, she might be pretty. Her bones were good, and I could see them perfectly, thanks to her emaciated state. Her hair was pitifully short and her long dark eyelashes only made her look more deranged. Her hair was dark, but the most striking thing about her was the way her eyes looked. Haunted and empty, like there was nothing left. I could see there were dark purple bruises around her neck, like fingermarks. She looked at me with the most terrified deer-in-the-headlights gaze I had ever seen, and then the orderly dragged her down the hall. Her fingers trailed along the wall, and as she touched a door, suddenly a keening wail escaped her lips. My jaw had dropped to the floor. Figuratively, of course. I stared after her and watched as she abruptly dragged her feet like they were pulling her along to the electric chair.

"Here you are, Mr. Wright," said the skittish orderly who had both seen my throw up all over the floor and given me a sponge bath. "Your room."

I nodded vaguely and let her nudge me into the room and shut the door. It clicked shut and locked with a clank. I heard the orderly's feet thumping down the hall, getting fainter and fainter. Then I let myself loose with the longest stream of curse words I'd ever spoken in my whole life. That's saying a lot. I cursed at Labraccio, I cursed at Rachel for turning me in and sleeping with Labraccio, I cursed Steckle for not stopping them getting me sectioned, I cursed Joe and his video library, I cursed little Billy Mahoney for being dead, and I cursed myself for everything. Finally I curled up on the little white bunk and pulled the sheets over my head. When I was sure Billy Mahoney wouldn't pop out and clock me over the head, I let myself sleep. 

Thou shalt not kill.

--- --- ---

Please review. For the benefit of Mrs. Wells, this is 1,924 words long. More chapters are soon to come. 


	2. Nelson: More Screwed Up Than Me?

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

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I hate this place. I hate the walls, I hate the sheets, I hate the food, I hate the people. I hate everything. I want to get out of here, and fast. But there's nowhere to go. As the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are. I was sitting on the couch in the little excuse for a common room when they ushered that girl in again. This time the other ones were trying to engage me in conversation. Look, to be perfectly honest, I'm a med student. I have full respect and understanding for mental illnesses. But I am not a lunatic. I do not belong here. I do not see visions, I do not hear voices. Whatever I hear or see is real. With the exception of Billy Mahoney, but that's another matter. But, I mean, hey. These scratches are real. These cuts are real. This chipped tooth is real. I'm not a hallucinogenic freak, all right? But anyway, they dragged the girl in. She seemed less emaciated than before, and now she seemed like she was okay, just a little shy. The standard white shirt was far too large for her, and she seemed to swim in it.

"Everyone," said the cotton-candy orderly. "This is Maggie Trenton. This is a big day for her."

I rolled my eyes. Oh please.

"She's been here for six months, but now is her big time to come out into the common room."

Oh. Great. I think I should stay away from this one. If she's spent six months in solitary confinement and maximum security and she _still_ looks like this...

Maggie walked over towards the window nearest me. Her pace was perfectly normal, but she kept looking from side to side at empty corners. She sat down in the window seat and curled her legs up to her chest like a child. What an amazing head case. I sighed and looked down at the empty table. Wonderful. I hate this place. I shot Maggie a glance and stood up. I brushed off the front of my pants and pulled off my glasses, hooking them in the collar of my shirt. Giving the common room one more look, I started walking towards the door. I barely made it out before I heard the thump behind me. I didn't give it any thought and kept on walking down the hall. I made it fifteen feet away before the door slammed shut behind me. I ignored it. At least, I ignored it until someone grabbed my shoulder with a vise-like bony grip. I whirled around to see Maggie staring at me with wide, bloodshot eyes. I took a big step back away from her and laughed.

"Hey!" I said, holding up my hands defensively. "What'd I do?"

She opened and closed her mouth like a fish and then finally managed to squeak out one word.

"Death."

Then she turned away and ran back down the corridor, past the common room and around the corner of the hall.

--- --- ---

"What do you mean I'll never be a doctor?" I yelled, standing up so quickly I knocked the chair over. The shrink nodded primly and laced his fingers together.

"That is part of what the court decided. You, in addition to your time here, will never be allowed access to medical equipment or training again."

I cursed furiously, spitting expletives left and right. I couldn't believe it! First they were going to have me locked up forever in this disgusting little hole and now they are going to keep me from any medical work whatsoever.

"How can you do this? Do you have any idea what I've spent on medical school? How long I've spent in college? I was the best med student, you son of a bitch! I was a f*cking genius! You can't do this to me! I was brilliant!" I yelled, pounding my fist on the desk. The man jumped, but didn't react too strongly.

"I see I may have to resort to alternative measures of keeping you calm, Mr. Wright," he said, and nodded sadly to two orderlies. They walked forward like mechanical dolls and grabbed my arms, shoving me forcibly into the chair. A third one approached with about two or three ccs of some clear liquid in a syringe. The next thing I knew they were injecting this stuff into the crook of my elbow. Everything these days was so unexpected.

--- --- ---

745 words.


	3. Nelson: Christmas Nuthouse

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

--- --- ---

Oh, Si-ilent Night. Ho-oly Night...All is calm...all is sedated. Round yon pharmacist, give me more drugs. Crazy pa-atient, stay in your bonds. Keep thine wa-alls poofy. Keep thine patients down.

I was sitting in my room, looking out at the tiny courtyard and humming to myself. Life is a crock. Really. What the hell is going on here that is going to help me "recover"? A load of psychos. I found Maggie under the table one day. The table. Do you know how crazy that is? She was sitting under the table with her knees tucked up to her chest like she was trying for the fetal position. Under the table. I sat down and didn't even know she was there until she grabbed my shins. This isn't going to help me recover, it's going to drive me completely insane, instead of just marginally.

The obsessive-compulsive-schizo in the room next to me is tapping the chair leg on the floor again. The walls are quite thin here. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. Pause.

I started to hum louder. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Tap-tap-tap. Pause. Finally I picked up the little plastic chair off the floor and hurled it at the adjacent wall. Tap-tap-WHAM!

Silence.

--- --- ---

"What were you going to be?"

I turned around slowly to see Maggie curled up at the window in the common room, her toes curled under her feet and her face towards the window. But it was clearly her that had spoken to me.

"Excuse me?" I asked unbelievingly. "Did you say something?"

She nodded. "What were you going to be before you got chucked in here? Lawyer, writer, artist, accountant, politician, what?"

"Doctor," I said, slowly realizing what she was saying. "I was a med student. And I was going to be the most famous person alive. I was going to show people the afterlife."

She laughed harshly and turned her dark eyes to me for a moment before looking away again. "I could have told you that."

She sighed deeply and touched the reinforced windowpane with one thin finger. "I was going to be a teacher."

I took off my glasses and hooked them in the collar of my shirt. "Why are you talking to me?" I asked bemusedly. Why, indeed? I had never seen her choose to talk to me before, other than the time she had chosen to say the word "death" to me. And what about that?

"I can talk," she said stubbornly, lowering her chin like a belligerent child. "But no one listens to crazy Maggie." She looked at me for a moment and blinked her oddly long eyelashes. They made her eyes look strange in their wideness. "He's not watching you today. That's why I talked to you. He kept following you before."

I understand why they call her Crazy Maggie. I ran my fingers through my hair in pure frustration. "Who are you talking about?"

Maggie was a Level One. That meant she couldn't go anywhere outside of the common room without escort. She wasn't trustworthy. Suicidal, they said, and schizophrenic as well. Most of the patients, I had learned, changed their status to that of a Level Two or Three quickly, by staying out of trouble. Maggie had been there a year. This was due to some various events involving "inappropriate behavior." I did not know the details. She looked at me and swiped her bony hand across the side of her head like a cat, brushing against her short, crisp, black hair.

"The one that follows you," she said unhelpfully. Really. That helped me understand her statement exactly NONE. "The little boy with the hockey stick."

What? Billy Mahoney was gone. Billy Mahoney had gone on to his sick little hockey-stick afterlife. I sent him there, and nearly sent myself there as well. And now this girl was telling me that after I nearly killed myself getting rid of the little shit, he was still hanging around. And again! How could she know? After a minute of complete silence, in which I could hear a tinny muzak version of "White Christmas" playing in some office, I made a command decision to completely ignore what she'd just said.

"How is the Christmas season played out here?" I asked. Completely off-topic. Maggie bit her lip.

"Little emphasis," she said with sudden clarity. "They don't want to remind people how alone they are here."

I laughed. "I know what they mean." I looked up at the ceiling. "I believe in God, I have to. God let me come back." I said softly. "But I hate Christmas."

"Have you had visitors?" she asked, tilting her head and let her index finger drag on her lower lip, pulling it down in a childish motion. I shook my head, then nodded.

"Mannus and Labraccio tried to visit me. But I didn't go see them. They were the ones that put me in here. You?"

She shook her head and lowered her eyes. She looked so young. It was hard for me to remember from her chart that she was 23 years old, two years younger than me. She didn't look it. She looked like a teenage anorexic on crack, that's what she looked like. She looked psychotic. Maggie looked like she _needed_ to be here.

"No," she said softly, her eyes starting to lose their clarity. "No visits."

Drugs were kicking in. She must have been in-between doses. I sighed. In those few moments of lucidity, Maggie had been an intelligent person to converse with. But now her eyes were unfocusing and she was starting to bite her nails.

There is no companionship in this place.

--- --- ---


	4. Nelson: Panic Attack in the Sky With Dia...

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

Disclaimer: Own Maggie.

Note: I really have researched all of this. Some of it I've taken poetic licence about, but a lot of this is true. My research was done thoroughly. I hobbled around the library bent double with the weight of about fifteen books about panic attacks, suicide, schizophrenia and the paranormal.

--- --- ---

I finally found a mirror. Some God has left me a mirror. Actually, I think it was one of the undergrads or something. It's really just a compact. I threw out the powder and the little poofy thing, but now I have a mirror. They don't let us have mirrors here, mainly because some people see things other than themselves in them, they are glass and can be broken to make sharp objects, and lastly, because it might damage our self-image. Well, as for the mirror's verdict, my cuts are beginning to heal. I look much better, considering the last time I looked in the mirror I had one hell of a shiner, a split lip, a cut on my nose, a cut on my cheek, by my eye and a big bruise on my temple. Oh, and I was limping, but I didn't need to look in a mirror to tell that. My shiner was gone, the split lip was healed. The only think really still there was the big gash on my cheekbone next to my eye. It was still this red, puffy scar. But everything else was a lot better, mercy for me. 

I was still on their drugs. It made me slow and sluggish in the afternoons, when it really started to kick in. Group therapy was hell. But, on the good side, I got bumped up to a Level Two, which means I can go to the vending machines down in the lobby. Now I can live off of Twinkies and soda instead of the horrible slop they call a hot meal here. I'm sure the folks down at the soup kitchen would love it, and frankly, they can have it. I just want a burger and fries. And I want a beer. I miss beer. I miss my cigarettes.

I was sitting in group therapy, thinking about how I never get any decent food in this place, when I heard an interesting vein of conversation. It was about food, so I perked up and listened.

"What do you all feel about eating?" asked our counselor. I snorted.

"It would be a lot easier if you guys fed us real food instead of pig slop," I said caustically.

"Do you still eat it?"

"Yeah," I said with a shrug. "What else am I going to eat? Twinkies from the vending machine? Give me a break. Does anyone not eat here?"

"I don't," whispered Maggie. All eyes turned to look at her, and how every bone in her body seemed extraordinarily pronounced. She didn't eat. What a surprise. "I can't eat it. It makes me gag."

"That's right, Maggie," said the counselor encouragingly. "Why does it make you gag?"

Maggie's eyes opened wide, crazy wide. "Because...it's...SHIT!" she shrieked. "Have you eaten it?"

"Those are expressive words, Maggie. That's extremely progressive of you. I'm so proud."

I rested my chin on my hand and looked at her without seeing her. She was the only girl here, other than the orderlies, that was anywhere near my age. Somehow that got me thinking about Rachel. I missed the opportunity to go for her. I pushed her right into Dave's arms. I was a jerk. A real jerk. She didn't trust me, and had good reason not to. I was a genius, and it threatened her. I was also insanely jealous. I wanted Dave to leave, even though he was my friend. I wanted him to get as far away as possible so I could try for Rachel. I don't even understand it now. Or do I? Or am I on too much medication? All I can remember is how pretty Rachel was, with her long reddish hair all fanned out on the gurney as we tried to bring her back. Desperately, in terror. Damn Dave. I almost had her that first time! And the second time! I was going to be hero, but then Dave stepped in and did his little mouth-to-mouth resuscitation act while I tried to find a way to get her out of this. It was pure luck that Dave managed to get her back. I could have gotten her. The second I saw Dave bent over her like that, like he was so completely...enrapt...that he could barely breathe, it was the closest I came to crying in so long...

"What about you, Nelson?"

SLAM! Back to earth for me.

"What do you think about Maggie's eating habits?"

"Uhhh," I grasped frantically for an answer. "The food does taste like shit. But maybe...some effort should be made or something."

Saved. I get a good mark from my teacher and a personal tidbit about Maggie. This is how it works here. Like kindergarten. Maggie's favorite song is Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. The irony does not escape me.

--- --- ---

"It really is shit, isn't it?" whispered Maggie. I jumped as she sat down on the bench with me. I nearly spat out my mouthful of instant mashed potatoes.

"Today isn't so bad," I said. "Why don't you try some?"

She shrugged. "They'll feed me through a tube anyway, whether I tell them I've eaten or not."

I gestured helplessly at her. "Is that why your voice is always..."

"Like I've swallowed gravel?" she finished. "That, yes. So, Nelson Wright..." she said slowly, looking up at the ceiling. "Do you think you're insane?"

"That's a question for someone you've only spoken to twice."

"There's no time in here," she said in her slightly husky voice. "Any day now the meds could just make us kick off. Life speeds up and slows down at the same time."

"Well, in that spirit, here's my Cliff Notes. Nelson Wright 101." I chuckled and poked at the mashed potatoes. "I killed a boy named Billy Mahoney when I was nine. I was taken from my parents when I was nine as well, and sent to a private schooling facility. I grew up there. I have no family. I have not seen my parents since I was nine. I died twice. I had the shit beaten out of me by the spirit of the kid I killed. So, Maggie, in light of that, I think I have every right to be perfectly insane."

"I see ghosts, Nelson. They talk to me. They touch me. They beat me. I should be insane. But I'm not. I'm just doped up all the time."

"So why me?" I asked, shoveling in a mouthful of potatoes and gravy. "Why not someone else to talk to? Is it the whole spirit-beating thing?"

"No," said Maggie, tracing her thin finger in patterns on the table. "It's the whole new thing. You haven't labeled me Crazy Maggie yet."

"And I'm Crazy Nelson," I said carelessly, holding out my hand. "Nice to meet you. I killed when I was nine and nearly killed myself and three other friends."

She put her tiny hand in mine and I shook it. "So you believe me?"

"I'll believe anything."

"He says he doesn't want to hurt you any more," said Maggie. "He just wants to watch you."

I shivered. "Is he always there?"

"He's there a lot."

"Is he there now?"

"No."

I turned away to take a sip of my water and collect my thoughts. "Does he hate me?"

"No."

"Why does he want to watch me?"

"I don't know." Maggie sighed. "He's the only one here that's nice to me."

"That's great," I said. Wonderful. Brilliant. Magnificent. The only person more screwed up than me, here, is pals with my past sin. I hate living here. I ran my fingers through the floppy bits of my hair that always hung down on my forehead. Then I looked at Maggie curiously.

"Do you have to have short hair here?"

She nodded morosely. "A girl hung herself with her hair last year." She sighed deeply. "I still see her sometimes and she cries. She cries so loud!"

Maggie pressed her hands to the sides of her head as if she could hear the screams at that moment, her gaunt features twisting and contorting with an ageless pain. Then she let her hands drop, shrugging her bony shoulders with an exaggerated drop. She drummed her bony fingers on the table, her fingernails bitten down to teeny tiny nubs. 

"They committed me for suicide watch," I muttered. "They committed me because of suicide watch, self-battery, intent to harm others, and sociopathic tendencies."

Maggie smiled widely. I hadn't seen her do that before. "They said I was suicidal and had schizophrenia. I'm not schizo, I swear I'm not!" she cried, her voice husky and slightly garbled from the effects of the drugs. "I'm not hearing voices that aren't there, I'm not seeing visions and stuff! I really see them! But that's what all the real schizos say too. I am suicidal, I know it!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up, and then I noticed the satiny scars crisscrossing the inside of her wrists. "I don't want to live when they won't leave me alone, and especially here! I know they want me to help them, but I can't when I'm in here, and they put me in here, so they shouldn't get mad and beat me up!"

I watched her as she waved her arms around during this little speech. She was a very animated person, Maggie. What with the way that she moved and talked, and especially her past history and what she claimed, I could easily see her labeled as Crazy Maggie. I barked a short laugh and patted her shoulder. I could feel the bones sticking out, barely covered by her thin skin.

"I know, Maggie," I said. "It's a vicious cycle."

"It is!" she cried again, her eyes growing impossibly wide. They were brown, and her eyelashes were a dark black. The way she looked straight ahead when she opened her eyes wide made them look exaggeratedly large, and black rimmed, like something a child would draw. A great big black circle with a little brown dot in the middle. She sniffed and drew her forearm over her face, wiping tears away from her eyes.

"I just want them to leave me alone. I'm not crazy."

I couldn't blame them for thinking she was crazy. Hell, I was beginning to. But if there was the slightest chance that they _had_ misdiagnosed her, then she was wasting her time here. Suddenly, right then she began gasping for air. She pounded the heel of her hand on the table and gasped again, the raspy sound frightening me. It sounded like there was something seriously wrong.

"Drowning!" she choked. "Can't breathe! Going to have heart attack!"

She clutched at her chest frantically and a large tear squeezed out of each eye. I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to make her look at me straight.

"NO!" she shrieked, jerking away from me. "Don't touch me! It makes my skin crawl."

The last words she spoke in a kind of dark hiss and recoiled, still gasping desperately.

"Maggie!" I snapped commandingly. "Listen to me!"

She kept panting, her breath rasping in her throat like a rake scraping against concrete. She swayed back and forth and grabbed the table as if she was going to pitch over. The lyrics to an old song abruptly flung themselves into the forefront of my mind. _I feel the earth move under my feet. I feel the sky come tumbling down, tumbling down..._

"Maggie!" I said again. The other patients were starting to stare, their jaws dropping with blank surprise. I tried to ignore them. Maggie looked at me with wide, terrified eyes. I leaned my head wherever hers dipped and bobbed. I figured this had to be a panic attack. "Maggie, I want you to breathe deeply."

Hell, she sure was acting like the earth was moving under her feet and the sky was "come tumbling" down on her head! I've never seen the kind of raw fear in her eyes in any other human being. My fellow death seekers were pretty scared whenever any of us went under, I would go as far to say they were scared shitless, but I had never seen them when they were facing their demons. Labraccio later told me the look in Maggie's eyes most of the time was the one I had expressed in the truck when I had been attacked by Billy Mahoney.

Maggie sucked in a deep breath and tried to steady herself on the edge of the table. I put my hand on top of hers and grabbed her chin with my other one, forcing her to look straight at me.

"Maggie, look straight at me," I said calmly. "You're not going to die. You are not going to have a heart attack. You are not falling. You can breathe perfectly fine."

She looked at me as if she suspected I was lying, but took an experimental breath. She still stared at me skeptically, but at least she was making an effort to breathe.

"Breathe, Maggie. Breathe."

I HATE THIS PLACE!

--- --- ---


	5. Nelson: Shenandoah

****

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

___________________

Group therapy gives me the creeps. I sit there and listen to people talk in strange voices about voices they hear, and then they get taken out of the room when they get too agitated to be shot up with drugs. This has happened to me only once. Once, and I care not to repeat the experience. I don't know what was in those drugs, but whatever it was made me understand why all of them talk like they do. The drugs slow down all your reactions, even your voice, so it sounds a little like the way a deaf person talks: garbled, vowels running together and a very _round_ sound to your words. In short, I sounded like I'd just learned to speak for two hours.

There was one girl who liked to sing. She was pretty new. Really new, in fact. I was shocked when I saw her there. I thought Maggie was the only youthful girl, but this girl was...well, a girl. She was beautiful. Her skin was pale, almost as white as the walls and it looked like she could fade into the drywall and disappear forever. Her eyes were wide and a very lovely blue. She was tall, leggy and possibly as beautiful as Rachel. Well, probably more. I guess Rachel would be the most beautiful thing to me because I – never mind. Anyway, she was ethereal. Frail, thin, ethereal, like she wasn't going to be here long. By here I mean on earth, not in this hellhole. I think from the way she kept instinctively brushing at her shoulder that she used to have long hair. What she did have now was pale, almost white blond. It freaked me out that even the orderlies, the male ones, would check her out. I never found out what was wrong with her, but every day she would sit in her room and sing. Slow, sad folk songs that rang out through the halls and made everyone listen. They made Maggie cry. She pressed her hands to the sides of her head and fisted big handfuls of her short black hair and cried. It wasn't a sort of chest-heaving sobbing, but she shut her eyes tightly and let the tears ooze out. The girl was singing that day, a slow, melancholy song that, surprisingly, I knew the words to. Every time she would start singing, I would quickly start to talk to Maggie about anything, so she wouldn't hear it. She usually did listen, but at least she didn't screw up her face, she just listened to me with tears streaking down her face.

"I know that song," I said desperately. Maggie looked at me blearily, her eyes filled with pools of tears.

"Song?" she asked in her heavy, drugged voice. I nodded. Jesus Christ.

"Yeah. It's a pretty one, isn't it?"

So pretty it's making her cry. _Change the subject_! She nodded and wiped the back of her hand against the soft line of her jaw where little teardrops were clinging like rain on the edge of a roof.

"What's it called?" she garbled, the query in her voice unmistakable. 

"Shenandoah," I said. "I can play it on the guitar."

"You play guitar?"

I saw the tears hesitate for a moment, and her interest seemed completely diverted for a moment. "You play guitar?"

Grateful to have found a subject that I could distract her with, I plowed forward, wishing I hadn't mentioned my former guitar playing days.

"Yeah. I learned it a long time ago, but haven't played for a while."

My little rebellious artist phase. When I was sixteen I felt like the world hated me, so I learned to play the guitar. I started smoking and I played rock songs. Maggie's attention was wavering.

"I bet I can play any song you can name."

__

Shit.

"Really?" She tilted her head like a child. "Um...Old Time Rock and Roll?"

"Sure," I said. Sure. Sure. Sure I can. Sure I'll play that song. Argh...

"Blaze of Glory?"

"Yeah."

"Your Song?"

"My song- oh. Yeah."

"Pink?"

"Sure."

"Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds?"

"HahahaaaAAAAAhaaaaa," roared one of the other patients at Maggie's irony. I hate this place. I really hate this place.

"Yeah."

Maggie apparently couldn't think of any other songs she might want me to know how to play, so she stood up without saying a word and walked out of the room. The girl kept singing, her voice lifting up and swelling in the air like the sound of an angel. I wondered what was wrong with her.

--- --- ---

Note to Avanova: You cannot imagine how much your one little review has meant to me! I swear, that review has made me more happy than any other review in the whole of fanfictiondom! Pal, it's on to the favorites list for you! (On my real account, ID:174967) (Eeek, _pal_, Young Guns, if you've seen that one.) YEEEEP! I thought no one at all had noticed this! *bounces up and down* And I'm so glad you like Maggie. I was trying to keep her creepy, crazy but sympathetic. Aiiie! Thankyouthankyouthankyou. Ooo, on my other profile, Lea of Mirkwood, there's a couple more Kiefer-movie-based fics, if your craving for Kiefer extends into Lost Boys and Young Guns... WEEE! Another Kiefer fan! Another Flatliners fan! (By the way, the other two moderators of this account, Becky/Zeech and Molly/Kadama are Kiefer fans too, but Molly's more of an Emilio gal. Becky has a Young Guns fic. Okay, I'll shut up now.


	6. Maggie: Getting In and Visiting

****

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

A/N: Hope I don't squick anyone. Sort of squicked myself. Hey, Mrs. Wells? This does not call for a guidance appointment. This is just a story. The fact that I freaked myself out writing this should say that. I hate the idea of things cutting things. I even hate paper cuts, for Pete's sake.

_______________________

I have to ace this test. If I ace this test, I'll get my degree. If I get my degree I can start applying to schools for a teaching position. But do I want to teach the little kids or the teenagers?

I dropped my bag on the couch and walked towards the bookcase, reaching for a book but carefully avoiding touching the actual wood of the bookcase. I don't like that bookcase. Damn- my hand brushed it when I started to pull the book off the self.

THAT BITCH

The thought crammed its way into my head forcefully. I didn't know who said it, but someone did. Someone who was now dead. The idea was filled with hate and rage, and it made me stagger back a few steps. I shivered. I don't like that bookcase. My roommate told me she got it at an estate sale. I hate estate sales. I hate them. Shaking still, I hastily jammed the book back into the case and turned around, heading towards the bathroom. I'll take a shower. I'll take a shower. I can wash off the thoughts. I can wash away the dead. I can scrub them away. They'll wash off. They'll go away. Go away. Away.

"Leave me alone!" I shouted, clenching my fists in a little ball. As I passed the bathroom door to get my robe and towel, I saw someone in the bathroom and jumped, turning to stare into the little room. No one, just the mirror reflecting a far-away me with soft shoulder-length black hair and pretty wide eyes. Far-away me. Far-away me. Pretty me. Am I pretty? After a few moments of staring into the empty bathroom I forced myself to look away and go get my things to take a shower.

When I locked the bathroom door behind me, I quickly unbuttoned my shirt and let it fall to the ground in a little blue-checked puddle. Scowling at my reflection, I turned around to glance at my rear. Need to take off a few pounds. Definitely. I let the rest of my clothes drop to the floor, instinctively crossing my arms loosely over my chest as I stepped into the shower. Living for almost twenty years in an old house with lots of eyes watching you made a person modest, almost to the point of obsession with modesty. I was a reserved child, but college made me wild. My boyfriend Tony is the best thing that's ever happened to me. Modesty around Tony? HA! Never modest around Tony. Don't need to be modest around Tony. At least Tony understands my hatred of antique things, although he doesn't know why I hate them. I shivered at the memory of the bookcase. I get that every time I touch it. Some angry thought about some woman who did something-

MAGGIE

I yelped and turned around quickly. No one was there, but someone had clearly thought my name, or said it. Something. Something.

"Go away!" I muttered, turning back towards the wall of the shower and scrubbing angrily at my back. "Go _away_!"

The presence stayed in my mind, like a little shadow in the fog. I knew there was someone there. Someone was watching me, and the fuzzy feeling of it felt like someone I knew. I'll scrub it out. I'll scrub it out. Biting my lip in pure terror, I kept scrubbing the mesh sponge across my back. It felt great, like I was getting rid of years of grime and I couldn't even feel a thing. After a few minutes I turned towards the rack of soaps, reaching for the bar of Dial while taking the sponge off my back so I could add more soap to it. As I moved, I glanced at the mirror. Someone was reflected in it with me. I yelped and turned towards where the mirror said someone was, but no one was there. As I turned my back slid along the tile wall, I felt a burning, stinging pain in my skin there. I looked down at the sponge in my hand and my jaw dropped. Blood covered the side I had been scrubbing myself with, and I could even see small bits of skin clinging to the plastic. I screamed and stumbled back, falling down to the floor of the shower as I tried to get away from the shadow that now filled the end of the shower. Little tendrils of steam rose up from the tile floor and snaked around the figure, which reached out one thin _hand_ towards me.

"Leave me alone!" I screamed, writhing frantically and trying to scramble away from the figure, ignoring the stinging in my back.

HELP ME PLEASE DYING CAN'T BREATHE SCARED HURT DEAD

"Go away!" I begged, fumbling with the shelf above my head. "Please, just leave me alone!"

The plastic rack slipped down and fell on my head, bottles and cans of shaving gel clattering in between me and the thing, getting caught and swirling around in the flow of water. THERE! I found what I was looking for.

Slash. Slash.

I fell forward on the tile floor, my head just barely out of the way of drowning, while the water turned to red wine.

--- --- ---

"NO!" I shrieked, sitting straight up in bed at the mental place, and frantically groping in the dark for a light switch. Just before my fingers found the little plastic knob, I paused. No, can't do that, they'll see. All of them. I'll go find someone. Find someone to help, who likes me. Who likes me? No one likes me, I'm a freak. I'm an ugly freak. I'm insane. I'm crazy. I'm going crazy.

Does Nelson like me? No, why would Nelson like me? I've just scared him. But he's nice. I think. I can't remember. I don't remember how people act when they like you. I don't remember Tony. But maybe I do, because I can remember that I can't remember him. What did I do with Tony? Tony liked me. I kissed Tony, and did..._other things_. No, I wouldn't do..._other things_ with Nelson. Not that kind of like. People talk to people when they like them. I talk to Nelson.

GODDAMMIT, I want off these drugs. Make me think funny.

But does Nelson talk to me? He saved me from drowning. But I wasn't really drowning, I just thought I was. But he did save me. I think. Did he? I should ask him. I should go talk to Nelson. He's still sane, maybe he can tell me if he saved me or not.

As I unlocked my door and tried to remember where Nelson's room was – _Did I know that in the first place? Have I been to Nelson's room? No, I don't go there, people's rooms are where _other things _happen. So no. Do I know? Does he have a little name card? I'll look for his little name card. I have a little name card on my door._ – I noticed, to my brief amusement, that my feet made almost no noise when I walked down the hall. All the way down the hall, checking name cards as I went. There's Nelson. Door's locked. I can get it open. I fiddled with the lock for a few seconds until it clicked open smoothly. Ha. A year's worth of hell has taught me something.

Nelson was sleeping. He sleeps...he doesn't sleep well. His sheets were twisted around his legs and his pillow was shoved at an odd angle up against the headboard. I took a light step towards him and very softly – _I haven't forgotten how to be nice while I'm here, see?_ – touched my finger to his temple, and let it trail down his cheekbone to run the length of the scar there. A brief smile flicked across his mouth and he turned towards me, still asleep and made a sleepy noise, a soft moan.

"Rachel?" he murmured and rolled over again. "Glad you're here, Rachel."

I frowned and stepped back, a slight smile tugging at the corner of my mouth at his sleep talking. I decided to wait for him to wake up. He mumbled a few more things as I found a corner of his room to curl up in, and I fell asleep to the soft sound of Nelson talking in his sleep.

--- --- ---


	7. Nelson: Traces of Rachel

Lost in the Shadows

Laura

A/N: I would love to write for Enlightened!Nelson, but I love asshole!Nelson too much.

_______________________

I dreamed I was dying. I dreamed I flatlined again, and I went flying. They were all trying to bring me back, I could hear it, but I couldn't come to them. I tried to run to them, across the field I was in last time I flatlined, but I saw Billy coming back again. He pulled his hood back again and smiled, holding his hands out, and behind him I saw the shadow of someone else. Champ was there, I think. If he was there he was barking at me. Behind Billy walked Maggie, and she seemed as small as Billy herself. Her face was thinner than it is in life, and she looked transparent. She and Billy started walking towards me, getting closer and closer until I could almost touch them. 

I woke up wishing for Rachel. It was a lingering feeling, like all those nights before I was in here when I would wake up from a dream about her and the first thing I would realize is, "She's not here." It was like when, for the first few years of med school, I roomed with Dave – this, of course, was when he hadn't decided to be an atheist and was experimenting with Buddhism or something – and he burned incense. I'd wake up late and there would be another char mark on the windowsill and it would be all cleaned up, but the rest of the day I would smell vanilla. I always felt like that when I dreamed about Rachel. The rest of the day I thought I saw her shadow, or the sound of her voice would make me jump. Little things like that. I hadn't had a single dream about her since I'd been in here, but the end of this dream reminded me of Rachel in a strange way I had no idea how to explain. I rolled over and punched my fist angrily into the pillow. Nothing is more frustrating than dreaming about a girl you can't have. A tiny noise made me sit up, blinking confusedly and pushing my hair out of my eyes. It took my a minute to realize the little ball in the corner of my room, just by the door to my bathroom, was a person. It took me the time it took to put on my glasses to realize it was Maggie. She had her arms wrapped around her knees and her head was pillowed on her arms. I could tell she was asleep. I stared blankly at her, then I stood up slowly and walked over to her.

"Maggie?" I whispered, patting her shoulder tentatively. "Maggie?"

She woke up with a tiny scream and clawed at the wall. I reached out and hesitantly grabbed her shoulder to hold her still. She snapped her head up and looked at me with wide, terrified eyes.

"Nelson!" she gasped, her small chest rising with quick shallow breaths as she caught her breath. "Mnn..!" she mumbled, the word she was trying to say getting caught in her throat and stopping before it became audible. "Too cold in my- scared of the- I can't remember what to do-"

She buried her head in her hands and started crying, slow, hoarse sobs that racked her shoulders and sounded like she was choking. After a minute I put my arms around her shoulders and tried to comfort her. Not fun, since my mind was still thinking Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel. I hadn't really had the opportunity to comfort a girl when she was really messed up. Girls I've dumped never really wanted me to comfort them, they just wanted me to get away from them as fast as possible and never ever mention to anyone that they'd slept with Nelson the Creep. The top of Maggie's head rested lightly against my chest as I softly ruffled her hair.

"You did what?" I asked. She sniffled morosely and hiccuped, the fluctuation of her diaphragm making her ribcage shudder under my fingers.

"It gets cold," she whispered softly, and looked down at the ground. "Too cold to sleep and I don't want to."

"God," I whispered, feeling her fingers. The skin was cold, like she'd been sitting in the snow. "You're like ice. Do you want me to call someone?"

"NO!" she shrieked in a muffled voice and tried to leap from my arms. I caught her around the waist and pulled her back, bringing her hands to my chest to keep them warm.

"It's okay, Maggie, God," I said exasperatedly. "Just sit still."

--- --- ---

I'm so sorry this is really short, but I have to get out of this scene. I've been busy with two plays at once and then getting ready to go to London. 


	8. Nelson: Be Happy Please

**Lost in the Shadows**

Lea of Mirkwood (userid=174967)

--- --- ---

Medication swinging in. Daily sedatives, such fun. The moment I get out of here, I'm going to track down Labraccio and Mannus and putting sedatives in their food every single fucking day. How would they like it? It's like that rubbery feeling you get right after sex when you're trying to walk around and your hands won't grasp and your knees won't lock. Nasty stuff when you're trying to negotiate through the halls.

I heard a scream down the hall. Sounds like someone's going in the restraints. Must be Tuesday.

Everything's really funny here when you're on sedatives. Nothing's normal, but it's just really funny. The way the people walk around, really gingerly, like they're tiptoeing on eggshells. The floor isn't going to _break_. You _can_ walk on it, I'm sure that's what they meant it for. Somehow, possibly through a lack of Saturday Night Live, I now find things like this amusing beyond all comprehension. People-watching has become one of my favorite pastimes here, leading my personal shrink to think I "tend to be a spectator, letting life pass by while you stand on the sidelines, so to speak." Eh, the nut probably thinks I'd rather watch puppies drown than lift a lazy finger to help. Well, hell, it's partially true, I mean…well…dammit.

--- --- ---

I felt like visiting Maggie. Avid people-watching still can't compare with actual interaction with the Nutbar to Rule Them All: Maggie Trenton. I feel sorry for the girl, certainly. It must be tough to be that fucked in the head. All her thoughts swirling around like food in a blender. She's probably let a pretty weird childhood if all these visions of hers have come throughout her lifetime. But of course, much of schizophrenia manifests itself around puberty, so she's probably just had to live through about ten years. Damn, but that's still a long time. Got to give the girl credit, I'd probably have offed myself by then. If I lost reason I'd probably go nuts- but that's the problem, isn't it? Whatever the way, it's something I won't lose. Don't want to lose my brain. Brain's the best thing I've got, according to many people, lacking in heart or soul or all that shit. Grinch-sized heart beating in my chest, here, if you'd believe Mannus.

To return from my derailed train of thought, going to visit Maggie. (Damn nuthouse makes my thoughts trail off into Bizarro Land more often. Not good.) Her room was just down the hall. Either fortunate or unfortunate, I'm not sure. I couldn't visit her as often (this place gives me chronic short attention span) if she were farther, certainly, but I probably wouldn't find her under my bed or in the corner or in the toilets if she were farther away. Double-edged sword, I guess.

Cotton-Candy waved at me tentatively as I passed her in the halls. I don't think I know her name. Oh well. She's giving me this odd, half-appraising look every time I walk by her now. It's unsettling, to say the least. She doesn't look smart enough to be here, for one. Besides, I'm resigned to a life of celibacy or Mrs Palm and her five lovely daughters without the promise of damned Rachel at the end of the tunnel. I'm not a good boyfriend, anyway.

Maggie's door was unlocked and I went in. It still felt odd just going in. I kept expecting one of the orderlies to grab my arm and say, "NO CONTACT, NO CONTACT!" Freaky kind of place. Don't like it.

"G'morning, Maggie," I said, yawning slightly. I grabbed a chair, spun it around and straddled it, resting my arms on the back of its plastic surface. She was still in bed, curled under the covers with only above her nose showing. At least I couldn't see her pitifully hollow cheekbones. That was just damn creepy, like Night of the Living Dead. She murmured an incomprehensible response and the sheet moved ever so slightly as her breath touched it. Sighing, I guess. "How's life?"

She gulped in a deep breath and the sheet sucked in almost imperceptibly. That was a bit frightening that her deepest breath only pulled in that much. Out of practice with medicine (_permanently!!!)_ as I was, that's never a good sign. Lung capacity or whatnot, very important and kind of useful.

"There…" She shuddered all over. "There's a girl in my bed who cries at night." Her voice was barely a whisper, filled with terror. "She says I won't let her leave."

It was just then that I noticed she really was curled up enough to give room at the foot of her bed for another person to sit there. That's called taking delusions a bit too far. "You sure?"

She nodded. "She says it's my fault she can't be happy. Mine."

I was about to nod slowly and ignore her when I heard a whisper of a sob, not coming from Maggie, because she was chewing on the sheet. It sounded like it was coming from another room, but not-

"Be happy be happy be happy be happy please be happy be happy be happy oh please-" moaned Maggie as she bit down hard on the hem of the cotton she was curled under. Jesus.

I shook my head and let my gaze travel down to the foot of the bed, avoiding the fact that I knew Maggie would probably bite her fingers next and draw blood. I'd seen her do that once, before the orderlies put her back in restraints. It's a sight I don't care to see again. There's a difference between medical gore and surgery and someone so out of it they don't realize they're drawing their own blood with their teeth. It's bordering on the painfully pathetic.

The sheets where Maggie wasn't shifted. They just…moved. Someone sitting there uncrossing their legs would have made the same motion. There's no one there. I glanced, Maggie's feet were up, away from the foot of the bed. The sheets weren't touching anything but the mattress and Maggie, who hadn't twitched. I stood up so fast the chair fell to the ground with a clatter, drawing a cry from Maggie as she ducked her head down under the covers.

"Did you see that?" I asked loudly, pointing. "At the foot of your bed, Maggie, dammit! Did you move that?"

Maggie didn't respond, but only buried her face in the pillow deeply. I heard a muffled wail as her fingers clenched the sides of the bed.

--- --- ---


End file.
